


Seen This Ground Before

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Agent Washington Doesn't Take Your Shit, Canon-Typical Violence, Competant Wash, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mind Games, Panic Attacks, Reference to Homophobic Bullying, References to past trauma, mental manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash is captured. But Wash is also pissed. </p><p>Locus will try to play mind games, but he's not going to get anywhere. At least not anywhere Wash hasn't been before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for attempted emotional and mental manipulation, mind games.

Locus isn’t allowed to harm the prisoners. Torture is not allowed, Control was very specific about that. They are to be unharmed when they arrive. He can get away with a few bruises, Locus knows, but there is information he wants out of them, and his usual methods are off the table.

There are many things, though, he can do to them that won’t leave a mark. There are many things he can say to break them. And Locus has always been very good at mindgames.

(The only one he’s ever really lost was with himself.)

*

“What the hell do you want?” Sarge demands when he enters the cell.

“Silence.”

The Sergeant plays the leader, but he follows orders like a dog. Locus goes over to him, looks down at him where he’s chained down. They’ve been removed from their armor, helmets taken away. He wonders what it must be like for men so used to being covered in Kevlar and titanium, to be so unprotected. He doesn’t remember the last time he was outside his own armor.

“You were a Freelancer, Agent Washington,” he says, pacing the cell.

The younger one, the pink soldier eyes him warily, with a touch of fear that he likes.

“Yeah,” Washington replies. Locus isn’t very pleased with his tone. “It’s not really the kind of thing you stop being.”

“The Freelancers are the most famous of the failed programs of the war,” Locus continues. “The greatest weapons. A pity they were turned on each other, instead of put to greater use.”

“Yeah,” Agent Washington says. “A pity.”

“I’d be interested to hear what made your program so successful,” Locus says, going still like some sort of predator before it strikes. “Information from the inside.”

“What if I don’t want to talk about it?” Wash asks. “Painful memories. You understand.”

Locus walks over to the youngest soldier, the one formerly armored in pink, picks him up one-handed by the collar. He struggles in his grip, so Locus adjusts his grip under the jaw, increasing the pressure on his windpipe. The soldier’s eyes go wide and scared. Locus tilts the soldier’s head from side to side, admiring the terror on his face. He squeezes harder, so the whole room can hear him wheeze for air.

“Tell me of the Freelancers, Agent Washington,” Locus demands. “Or the youngest one will suffer.”

The sound of the pink soldier struggling to breath is loud in the silence of the cell. There’s a vein jumping in the Sargent's jaw. Interesting. That can be used later.

“Okay.”

Agent Washington smiles, an unnerving curve in his tired face. Locus frowns inside his helmet, confused at this reaction. He had thought Agent Washington would be harder to break. The pink soldier is staring at the agent, fear and gratitude warring on his face. Locus drops him, monitors the way his hands try to go to his throat but can’t quite reach, the uneasy shift of the Sargeant, even as he turns his attention to the agent.

“Wash, don’t—“

The agent silences them with a look, turns back to Locus. There’s still a shadow of that smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t match the gleam of hatred in his eyes (except that it might match it too well).

“York used too much gel in his hair,” Agent Washington says, after a pregnant pause. “South always had perfect eyeliner. Flowers was always everyone’s favorite, before he disappeared. No one ever told me what happened to Georgia.”

“Tactics,” Locus interrupts. “Technology. Armor systems.”

“Theta copied my skateboard, but he never saw me on it, so he never knew how to use it,” Wash continues. “Connie loved sushi. South had a thing for cute girls. Maine purred in his sleep on the way back from missions when they went well, before he lost his voice. The last thing I ever heard him say was “Too high” and the last time I saw him was falling off a cliff.”

“This is not the information I want, Agent Washington,” Locus snarls, yanking him forward. He places the muzzle of the gun under his jaw. “They say you knew better than anyone else what happened with the AI program. How did they split it?”

“I used to tease Carolina about being descended from Harry Potter,” Wash continues. “She always used to scoff, but she liked it, I could tell. York used to sing ‘Carolina on My Mind’ when he thought no one could hear him. We had a bet, all of us, when they were going to become an official thing. I picked a day the week before he ended up dying—“

Locus hits him with the butt of the gun, hard enough his skin is scraped raw down the left side of his face. Wash laughs raggedly.

“We never could decide if North was Team Mom or Team Dad,” he continues, “Carolina told us off, but he said it wasn’t an insult to be compared to a mom, not in his book.”

Locus storms out of the cell. Wash laughs, hissing in pain through it. The door slams.

“That was damn stupid, son,” Sarge says after a minute.

“Maybe,” Wash says, shooting him a tight grin. “But at least we learned something.”

“What?” Donut asks.

“We learned,” Wash says. “That he’s not going to kill us. At least not yet. If he were going to kill us, he’d have shot one of you to show he meant business to get me to talk. Something’s holding him back.”

“Is your face okay?” Donut asks.

“Yeah,” Wash says. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not encouraging, Agent Pain Sponge,” Sarge grunts.

“Normally I’d say I have a cream for that,” Donut says. “But…”

Wash huffs a quiet laugh. His face stings, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to be okay.

He can feel some part of him bracing for the fight ahead. Locus is a scary motherfucker, but he’s got a logic to him. He may be a monster, but Wash has dealt with worse. He’s dealt with people without a code, people who didn’t follow their own rules. Locus is cold, Locus is calculated, Locus is brutal, but the thing about calculation, is that calculations can be recreated, followed, controlled.

Calculations have variables.

He looks up, glances at Donut and Sarge. He can keep them alive. He can probably keep them all alive.

“Wash…” Donut whispers. “…You’re kinda…freaking me out.”

“Sorry,” he replies. “I’m good. I promise.”

“Whatcha thinkin’, Wash?” Sarge demands. “Don’t like it when ya get all quiet like that.”

“I was thinking,” Wash says. “Maybe we’re not so boned after all.”

They stare at him.

“What in the sam hell gave you that impression?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically an ode to my faith in Agent Washington and his ability to survive this shit going down. I’m kinda convinced this is complete shit but whatever I’m posting it anyway. Future bits will get a bit Tuckington.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers for panic attacks, more emotional manipulation

“You told me, Agent Washington, that all the Freelancers were dead,” Locus says the next time he visits the cell. “Is there anyone else that cares for you?”

Wash snorts.

“Good luck on that front, buddy,” he says. “Let me know if you find anyone. I’d really like to know.”

“My intelligence reports your friends have joined the Rebels,” Locus continues. “Despite an offer to get them off-planet and away from our conflict. They’ve taken on ranks with the rebels in return for a promise that Kimball will add your rescue to her agenda. ”

A small part of Wash is relieved. A larger part wishes they’d taken that offer, had gotten the hell out of dodge. Most of his brain, however, is calculating, trying to figure out Locus’s angle with this. He has to have an angle, he wouldn’t be offering information without—

“My reports indicate,” Locus says, leaning close to Wash’s face. “That the most determined is one Captain _Tucker_.”

The breath rattles in Wash’s chest, he can feel his eyes widening against his control, and he knows, he fucking _knows_ he has to make a choice here, he’s got to make it now. He makes the choice he’ll hate himself for later. He makes the choice that will hurt, but it’s the right one, he’s always done what he had to despite the pain.

“You stay the fuck away from him,” Wash snarls. “They’re no heroes— they’re just idiots. And he’s the worst of them, they’re not a threat to you, I swear to god—“

“Their service record indicates differently.”

“They’re service record’s a _fluke_ ," Wash insists. He takes a few shallow breaths, feels his head start to spin. “I swear, I don’t even know how he’s still alive, he’s an idiot, he’s all talk, no action. They’re the worst team I’ve ever worked with.”

“And yet, you chose to stay with them,” Locus muses.

“They’re not my team,” Wash insists, desperation creeping into his voice. “I don’t even like him all that much! You were spying on us, weren’t you, you had to see us yelling at each other all the time.”

The panic’s rising, too close to the surface for his liking. He closes his eyes and forces it down, but the magnitude of it surprises him, the effort it takes surprises him.

“And yet, you chose his safety over yours,” Locus says. “It would appear your boyfriend has elected to do the same.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Wash snaps, voice cracking a bit.

Locus hums thoughtfully. Donut’s staring at him with this expression of pity on his face, and Wash hates him a little bit for that.

“Your Captain Tucker,” Locus continues, “Is going to try to come for you, Agent Washington. And I will be waiting.”

Wash lunges at him, wrists aching for all the good it does them. Shit, that hurts, it hurts his lungs the way he’s barely breathing, heart a dead weight in his chest and the room wobbles around him. He’s gasping for breath, air pushing between clenched teeth, eyesight doing dark around the edges. Locus grunts in satisfaction.

“I think we’re done for today.” Locus closes the cell behind him.

Wash listens for his footsteps receding in between gasps.

“God fucking dammnit,” Wash swears, shaking his head.

He’s got to clear it, he’s got to bring himself back down. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count. He focuses on pressing index finger to thumb, middle, ring, pinky and back, slow and steady, even breaths.

“Wash, it’s going to be okay,” Donut says. “Tucker’ll be okay.”

“Of course he will,” Wash snaps. Takes a deep breath. “Just…Just give me a second.”

They fall silent. Wash turns his attention back to the internal, focuses on his heart rate. He finds an old memory, the first time he’d managed a particularly complicated trick on his skateboard. It’s a good memory, a safe one.

It takes a long time. Longer than usual. Longer than he’s comfortable enough to admit.

Finally, he gets his breathing under control, looks up.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Donut and Sarge are looking at him like he’s falling apart at the seams. He’s learned to hate that look. He’s seen it a lot.

“I’m okay,” he says. “Really, guys.”

“Son,” Sarge says. “That did not look okay.”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I just haven’t had to do that in a while.”

His smile’s still wobblier than he’d like, his everything’s still a little wobblier than he likes. He hopes Locus doesn’t come back today, he’s not sure he can do that again so close.

“Do what?” Donut asks.

Wash waves a hand, as much as he can in cuffs.

“That,” he says. “I used to fake panic attacks all the time, back after the Project went down. No one really questions the guy who freaks out and starts hyperventilating when they try to get him to remember an ai killing itself in his brain. Made dodging questions easy. It just kind of sucks to have to do, but it beats the alternatives.”

“You did _what_ now?” Donut shrieks.

“Guys like Locus look for a weakness,” Wash explains. “They tend to stop looking if they find one. I gave him one we can use.”

“How can we possibly use that!” Donut shrieks. “I thought you were gonna _die_.”

“I’m not gonna die from a little hyperventilation. I’m fine.”

“That is not healthy, Wash,” Donut chastises.

“Look, we need information,” Wash says. “Isn’t it driving you crazy? Not knowing what’s going on out there?”

“…Um…no…I mean there’s plenty to drive anyone a little crazy. I don’t even want to think about my cuticles right now. But not that specifically.”

“Oh…” Wash says. “I guess that’s just me then.”

Sarge isn’t looking at either of them. Wash frowns.

“You’re quiet,” he says to Sarge. “Not going to yell at me for being a dumbass?”

“Hrmph.”

He sends Donut an incredulous look. Donut shrugs. The room starts to tilt again and he shakes his head, tries to force the horizon back where it’s supposed to be. Right angles.

“I thought you had more respect for us than that, Agent Washington,” Sarge says. “Thought we were a little past that whole ‘worthless bunch of idiots crap.”

“What?” Wash asks. “No! It’s not like that—“

“Saved your sorry ass on more than one—“

“Sarge, I _want_ him to underestimate you guys,” Wash says. “I don’t think you’re idiots. Okay, i think you’re idiots, but I don’t think you’re completely incompetent. There’s a difference.”

“Sure sounded like you did.”

“Sarge,” Wash says. “Every enemy you guys have come up against has underestimated you. Me included. We need every advantage we can get here.”

Sarge harumphs, like he’s not convinced yet.

“You do realize how many times I’ve lost to you, right?” Wash says.

“We ran you over with a car,” Sarge remembers gleefully.

“I remember that,” Wash says.

“I don’t!” Donut says.

“When I get my helmet back, I’ll show you,” Sarge says. “I got it saved in my personal videos.”

“See?” Wash says. “That’s how it works. People underestimate you as a bunch of worthless sim troopers, they lose. It’s a good system. Let’s not mess with the system. It works.”

“Fine,” Sarge says. “I get yer point. But in restitution, you have to use some of your fancy Freelancer talk to call Grif incompetent next time we see him.”

“I think I can do that.”

“And call him tangerine, or summat. Oo, no, a grapefruit. He hates that shit.”

“Deal,” Wash says.

The fog in his head is starting to clear out, the oxygen deprivation-induced pain receding. Sarge and Donut don’t look quite so freaked out anymore.

They’re fine. They’re all doing to be fine.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Donut asks.

“If he thinks he can hurt me by telling me about my team, he’ll have to share information,” Wash says. “Maybe we can do something with that.”

He doesn’t think about how easy it was to bring that panic to the surface at the through of Locus going after Tucker. He doesn’t think about how real that hurt was.

He doesn’t think about Tucker screaming when the rocks fell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for: mental and emotional manipulation, violence, discussion of abuse, discussion of character death.

“I bring news,” Locus says.

He closes the cell door behind him with a resounding clang. Wash doesn’t move a muscle, maintains his slouch, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. He can hear Sarge shifting, the rustle of his chains, the sound of Locus’s footsteps, two forward.

“You Doctor has been retrieved from the transportation cube,” Locus says.

Wash opens his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“Doc?” Donut says, looking up. “You found him?”

Locus’s helmet tilts almost imperceptibly towards Donut and Wash curses internally.

“He has been retrieved, yes,” Locus says.

“Where was he?” Donut asks. “We just lost track of him—“

“He was pulled into the gravitational force of the transportation cube,” Locus says, tilting his head at Donut as if he is a particularly perplexing problem. “You were there when it happened.”

“Noooo,” Donut says. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“You were standing not a dozen feet away. I was watching through the sniper scope. He was pulled in before your eyes and neither you nor your teammates showed any sign of noticing.”

“But you got him out,” Donut says, almost pleading and Wash cringes, but it’s too late. The scent of blood is in the air. “He’s out now. Are you going to put him in here with us?”

“No,” Locus says. “He will not be joining you.”

“Did he get away?” Donut asks. Wash wishes he would just shut up. “Where is he?”

Locus observes Donut for a moment. Wash looks up.

“He did not survive the trip to and from subspace,” Locus says, finally. “Unfortunate.”

The words drop like stones, right into Wash’s gut.

“….what?” Donut asks, voice faint.

Wash closes his eyes again. Thinks. He’s got to think.

“From what our analysts have discovered, those transportation cubes are not designed to be used on living material,” Locus continues, as if Donut were not breaking down in front of him. “The subspace dimension they send targets to is much like the vacuum of space. It would have been…painful. From the remains, it would appear that he simply imploded.”

“No, that’s not right,” Donut says. “He’s got his armor. It’s supposed to protect you from space.”

“The environment generated by the cubes is not space,” Locus says, as if giving a science lesson instead of detailing the ways a man died. “The compression is exponentially higher. He suffered.”

“You sonnuva bitch,” Sarge growls. “Why wouldja tell him that?”

“You should be thankful for my generosity in sharing information,” Locus replies coldly. ”The doctor is dead.”

“I don’t understand,” Donut whispers.

It’s only by the greatest self-control that Wash resists the urge to ball his hands into fists. Think. He’s got to _think_.

“The doctor is dead,” Locus repeats.

“He can’t be,” Donut whispers. “We were gonna go home.”

“Unlikely.”

“We were gonna plant cucumbers this Spring,” Donut says, as if talking to himself. “He had this plan to upgrade the solar power. I didn’t really understand it, but he was sure it was going to work so I just went with it. Even though last time all he did was blow up the kitchen.”

“Son,” Sarge says. “Donut—”

“No! I don’t want to hear it!,” Donut curls away from him, as far as the restraints will allow. “You didn’t even know him, didn’t even like him! I don’t want to hear your stupid macho put-downs right now!”

“I wasn’t gonna—“

“I have news for you as well, Agent Washington,” Locus says, rounding to him. The breath catches in Wash's throat, but he doesn’t make any sound, keeps glaring at him. Focus, he’s got to focus. “Your teammate, _Lavernius_ , lead a rescue attempt. You may remember the explosions yesterday.”

Wash does. One had sounded too close to where they were being held. He hadn’t dared to hope, but he’s long since had the potential weak points of their bounds investigated and memorized, hadn’t been able to resist checking again.

“He was looking for you,” Locus says. Wash’s breath shakes out of him, and he realizes it wasn’t done intentionally. “He was…too impulsive. Careless.”

“That’s Tucker for you,” Wash says, stalling for time to think. “I told you he was an idiot.”

There’s got to be an angle. This is too much volunteered information for Locus to justify, there’s a catch—

“They received heavy casualties,” Locus continues as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Betcha you did too, asshole,” Sarge cuts in from where he was whispering to Donut. “He’s a slackin’ sonuva bitch, but he’s a right asshole with that sword of his.”

Wash suddenly wishes Sarge wouldn’t try to help. Locus is making a move, there’s something he’s going for; he just has to figure out what it is.

“The losses were acceptable,” Locus replies, “for the strategic gain.”

“What gain?” Wash asks. Because he knows Locus wants him to. Because this is what it’s all been leading up to, maybe if he just sees his next move he can _figure it out_.

“We knew they were coming. I handled their assault personally,” Locus says.

That’s fear, Wash knows. He lets it show through, lets himself react to that thought visibly, give him what he wants, give him what he wants.

“He called out your name before I killed him,” Locus says and that’s it, that’s fucking _it_.

“Your friend,” Locus continues. “He tried to bargain, in the end, himself for your freedom. He begged.”

Agent Washington laughs in a brutal exhale. Donut stares at him like he’s going mad, like one or both of them are going insane, this is hell. It’s a laugh that’s pouring out of him, but it sounds more like a growl.

“No, he didn’t,” Wash snarls. “Tucker’s a mouthy son of a bitch. I’d've believed you if you told me he called you a junkless cockbite before he died. Tucker doesn’t beg. He’ll go to the grave mouthing off. Try again, asshole. You made a bad play.”

“I am a mercenary,” Locus growls back. “I don’t pretend war is a game.”

“Maybe not,” Wash says. “But manipulation certainly has moves, and you played a bad hand, Locus, try again. You wanna try to manipulate me with lies, you gotta do better than that. You’re not very good at it. Probably lack the creativity to get it right.”

Locus smacks him, broad palm, armored glove and everything. Wash tilts his head back again, let’s the room spin back into place.

“You best be careful how you talk to me,” Locus growls.

“What’re you gonna do?” Wash retorts. “What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done?”

“You are no stranger to captivity, Agent Washington,” Locus says.

He folds his arms across his chest, assessing him and Wash shakes his head experimentally. Probably no concussion. Probably. He lets his head hang, testing the muscles of his neck for soreness.

“You have no idea.”

“But I do,” Locus says. “I’ve retrieved your file, Agent Washington.”

“My file?” Wash replies. “You think that’s all you need to understand me?”

Wash looks up, looks the fucker right in the eye, his grin like a slash in the gloom.

“I blew up two of my best friends’ bodies after they were murdered,” Wash says. “That was the first time I saw them after they left me behind in the care of people they _knew_ were capable of torture. I walked around with the shell of what used to be the man I’d trust with my back over anyone else— for _weeks_. A daily reminder that I’d failed him, failed to notice how a toxic AI was tearing him apart, and that even after it was gone, there wasn’t anything left of him. I watched my boss, my leader, tear herself apart, come back from the dead and then I held a gun to her head.”

“Wash—“ Sarge tries to interrupt but Wash rolls right over his words.

“I stayed,” Wash continues. “I worked for years under a program I knew would turn on me and torture me just like they did to him the minute I became suspicious, if I even thought about reaching out to those friends I still had left alive. Just so when the time came I could take down the whole thing. I've been here before. My luck, I’ll be here again. I’ve been manipulated, lied to, taken advantage of, shot in the back, left for dead, been fucked over and I fucked over a lot of people,” Wash says. ”And I’m saying, you’re fucking lying.”

“It’s a play, Donut,” Wash says. “He’s lying. He’s just trying to fuck with our heads.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with Locus, but he can still pick up the hopeful tilt of Donut’s head in his periphery. Something small inside him unclenches with relief.

“Bad hand, Locus,” he says. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Careful, Agent Washington,” Locus growls. “Don’t want to show yours too soon.”

“Not a problem,” Wash bares his teeth at him, “when I know I’m holding a royal flush. You don’t have any game I don’t know how to play. You want us alive, don’t you?”

“That can be changed.”

“I don’t think it’s going to,” Wash says. “And I’ll bet you I’m right. You’re not going to kill us.”

Locus hits him and his head spins. He hits him again, again, another across the face and one to the gut and Wash yells in pain. He doesn’t have to fake that.

“You shouldn’t test the end of my patience,” Locus growls, right up in his face again. “Or my willingness to do whatever it takes to obtain my _objective_.”

The cell door shuts behind him before he can open his eyes. Wash groans as soon as he’s gone, tries to shake off the pain.

“Maybe we can take turns getting’ hit, instead of you takin’ all of it,” Sarge says, tone dry. “Y’alright, Wash?”

“Yeah, because you’d be so good at pushing the right buttons,” Wash says, prodding at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “And, yeah, think so. Didn’t knock any teeth loose.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Donut asks.

Wash spits blood on the floor. Best not swallow that.

“No,” he says. “He’s playing with us. Somebody wants us alive, somebody’s got a hold of his leash. Mindgames are all he’s got.”

“But what if he is?” Donut asks.

“He’s not.”

“But what if—“

“ _Donut._ ” Wash grits out. “He’s not. I don’t know where Doc is, but nothing Locus just told us was true. It’s a play.”

“But how do you know?” Donut asks.

“It doesn’t add up,” Wash says. “I can’t explain it. Just…trust me. He’s lying.”

“Yer boyfriend’s probably fine,” Sarge adds.

Donut nods, almost like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“Yer boyfriend’s probably fine too,” Sarge add, looking at Wash.

“Don’t start with me.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Sarge says, shrugging.

“I already told you. I had to give Locus something to—“

“Uh-huh. Yeah.”

“I hate you.”

“You know, Wash,” Sarge says. “I’m not a super-manipulation expert like you. But I gotta feelin’ there you’re lying.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for : Emotional manipulation, violence, gore, discussion of potential death of a major character, death of a non-major character

“The other Captains aren’t doing well with the death of Captain Tucker,” Locus says. “It won’t be long before the rebellion is crushed and this war is at an end.”

“You’re still going with that?” Wash asks.

Donut and Sarge are watching him warily. He’s not sure when they started looking to him during these interactions with Locus. It’s only a matter of time before Locus notices, does something about that. Maybe he already is.

“You are so certain that I’m lying,” Locus says. “This is…puzzling to me. Denial is a not a useful exercise for a soldier.”

“I told you, Tucker doesn’t beg,” Wash says. “I would know.”

Donut twitches. Wash rolls his eyes.

“I swear to god, Donut, it wasn’t like that,” he says.

“Whatever you say, Wash,” Donut replies airily.

How he can manage that when they’re supposedly being interrogated by their brutish captor really should surprise him, but Wash’s worked with the Reds and Blues long enough now that he’s not even fazed. As it is, this’ll help. He can use this later, probably.

“Sarge, tell him he’s got it wrong,” he says.

“Sorry, dirtbag,” Sarge replies. “I’m not in the practice of lyin’ to my subordinates. Unless it’s Grif.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Sorry, son. You guys were lookin’ pretty buddy-more-than-buddy to me.”

“We were yelling at each other literally _all the time_ ,” Wash protests. He’s vaguely aware he should be keeping his attention on Locus, shouldn’t be this defensive about this. But somehow it’s important, he can’t help it. “People who fight that much don’t have—“

The words trip over his tongue, like they don’t want to be spoken, don’t want to be real. And he can’t think of one that will make the two of them stop looking at him like that.

“—feelings,” he finishes, lamely.

“…Oh, you poor thing,” Donut says sympathetically.

Wash sends him an incredulous look. Sarge shoots him a smug raised eyebrow. Wash scowls at the pair of them.

Locus has been too quiet, observing the scene a little too closely, too contentedly (like a crocodile watching a group of lame antelope approach the river).

“What’re you looking at?” Wash snaps.

Locus considers him for another long moment and Wash starts to worry.

Locus brings his hand to his radio.

“Bring in the body,” he says.

Wash goes cold and still. He keeps his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed, taps into that well of anger because it’s better than the fear. He can’t show fear right now. He can’t.

A nervous-looking soldier opens the door, drags something stinking inside. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look at any of them, just abandons his cargo and hurriedly shuts to door after him. He can hear Donut gagging in the corner, Sarge swearing.

The body barely even looks human anymore. It looks like a bomb hit it. It looks like Locus hit it. Wash’s forces himself to look, forces himself not to flinch, even as his stomach rolls. The stench of blood is thick in the air, still oozing from the body. He wasn’t killed that long ago.

The armor, what’s left of it, what hasn’t been stripped from the body, is familiar blue-green. Seafoam. Aqua. It doesn’t matter.

“The damage he sustained was…unfortunate,” Locus says. “Control would have preferred him alive.”

What’s left of his skull…there isn’t much to say beyond that. There isn’t much left. Wash doubts that it would even be possible to extract dental records from it. Forget about facial recognition.

“What do you have to say now, Agent Washington?”

Wash stares at one of its hands. They’ve pried the armor off it; there are bruises, open wounds across its knuckles. He fought. He fought hard. Wash stares at that hand a moment, lets the revulsion and the relief and then revulsion again go through him.

“That’s not him,” Wash says. “I don’t know who that poor son of a bitch is, but that’s not Tucker.”

“Denial,” Locus says, “Agent Washington, changes nothing of your present circumstances.”

“No, it really does.” Wash says. “Because Tucker’s black.”

It’s always a satisfying feeling, letting the penny drop. Watching the ripples as people absorb the information you just said, the implications of the card you’ve put down.

“Oh yeah…” Donut says. “I always forget about that.”

“That’s not Tucker,” Wash says, turning to Locus. “Whoever this poor bastard was, that’s not him.”

There is a moment when everything is still.

“Oooo, _Awkward_ ,” Sarge stage whispers. Which is about as quiet as Caboose “whispering.”

Locus hits him so hard his head bounces off the cement behind him with a crack.

“ _Sarge_ —“

“Glad to know you can add ‘racist’ to your list of shining qualities,” Wash deadpans. Locus hasn’t stopped hitting Sarge yet, Wash’s got to get his attention, get him to— “You know, you really shouldn’t just assume someone’s white until proven otherwise—“

Locus drops Sarge and slams the cell door. He leaves the body behind. Sarge coughs wetly, starts swearing while Donut makes worried noises at him.

Wash kind of wants to laugh. Mostly he just feels sick. He closes his eyes a moment, apologizes to the dead soldier in front of them. Hopes Locus didn’t kill him just for this play. Hopes that it wasn’t his fault, even indirectly.

But forward. They gotta keep moving forward. He opens his eyes.

“You okay, Sarge?” Wash asks. “You really should have let me handle that.”

“M’fine,” Sarge says. He grins, what looks like a shiner already starting to form. “Yer not the only one who can take a hit, Wash. Thought I might help spread it around.”

“It takes more than that to keep Red Team down!”

Sarge sends Donut a crooked smile.

“That went well,” Donut says, entirely too cheerily. Wash tries to ignore the churning in his gut. “Right, Wash?”

“Maybe…” he says. “Maybe.”

“Awww _man_. I thought we were _done_ with the cryptic stuff,” Donut whines. “We totally played him.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

The mood is effectively broken.

“Whatcha thinkin’ Wash?” Sarge asks. “We’re not all inside that messed up head of yours.”

“…I think they’re going to separate us,” Wash says finally.

“…What?” Donut asks. “Why?”

“We’re too much of a united front,” Wash says. “Divide and conquer. Sooner or later, he’s going to realize that. My bet’s on sooner.”

“How soon?” Donut asks.

“Soon.”

 _It’s what I would do_ , Wash doesn’t say.

“I’m going to teach you some things,” Wash says. “Basic manipulation tactics. Just in case—“

_Just in case I’m not there._

“Just in case we do get separated.”

“Like the ‘fake’ hyperventilation thing?” Donut asks. Wash can hear the finger quotes around fake, even if Donut can’t make them. “Because I don’t want to learn that.”

“You basically know that one already, numbnuts,” Sarge says. “Why do you think your job in all our contingency plans is ‘scream like a woman’ first? Distract the enemy!”

Wash pretends he didn’t hear that, one, because he’s very focused on keeping his sanity, and two, because it’s actually a halfway kinda almost decent tactic, and he can’t deal with that from Sarge right now, see point one.

“I’m not teaching you that,” Wash says. “At least not yet. You can fuck yourself up with that, if you’re not careful. We’ll start with some basics. Work our way up, if we have time.”

“Before we start, can I ask just one teeny tiny question?” Donut asks.

“Go ahead.”

“Sooooo….” Donut says, in a sing song voice. “When did you see Tucker out of his armor?”

“Shut up, Donut.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for Violence, Physical Abuse, PTSD-like flashbacks, talk of emotional and mental manipulation and torture

“Okay,” Wash says. “Here’s what we know.”

He has their rapt attention, or as much attention as they’re capable of giving. This is the Reds, after all. Or, at least half of the Reds.

“Locus is answering to somebody,” Wash reiterates, “and that somebody wants us alive for…some reason. We don’t know that part. But they’ve got Locus’s leash. How do we know this?”

“Because he hasn’t killed us yet,” Donut replies cheerily.

“Not quite.”

“Because yer pissin’ him off left and right and he hasn’t killed us yet,” Sarge chips in.

“Better. Actually, we’ll just accept that. Okay, so this means we can push him, but not too hard. Whoever’s holding his chain isn’t keeping a close eye on how he’s following orders. Or doesn’t care about broken ribs and concussions as long as we’re still alive.”

Donut opens his mouth.

“No one has a broken rib or a concussion,” Wash says quickly. “Yet. Probably. We want to keep it that way in case whoever it is also doesn’t care about medical care. And I don’t want to stick around long enough to figure out if that’s the case. Anyway, Locus wants us easy to control. That’s probably what the mind games are about. If he can’t get rid of us, he wants to control us, make us less of a threat. Break us, if you will, but I’m guessing that torture’s been put off the list by Locus’s boss, or else he probably would have done it by now. He’s got to use other methods.”

“Like brainwashin’.”

“Like telling us our boyfriends are dead.”

“Like tell _you_ your boyfriend is dead,” Washington agrees, previous sentence adjusted for his sanity. “Manipulation. Mind games.”

“Coward,” Sarge scoffs.

“Dangerous coward,” Wash corrects again. “We need to take this seriously.”

Sarge and Donut nod.

“So how are we gonna get out of this?” Donut asks.

“He’s probably going to go after me mostly,” Wash replies. “He thinks you two are the weaker links. That you’re simple.”

“That’s not true,” Donut protests. “I’m not simple. I am _very_ complex, I’m probably the most complex guy on Red Team.”

“That’s for sure,” Sarge jokes.

“And I’m not weak,” Donut continues, a true rant building. “Just because a guy picks a certain shade a red everybody just _assumes_ —“

“Donut,” Wash tries, but Donut just continues talking over him.

“And heaven forbid anyone take a liking to scented candles, they think you can’t handle a battle rifle—“

“Donut!” Wash yells. “Focus.”

Donut crosses his arms over his chest as much as the chains will allow, but quiets. Wash doesn’t like that crease between his eyebrows. It’s a thinking crease.

“I know you’re not,” Wash says. “You’re not simple, and you’re not weak. Don’t let him find that out. He’ll focus on me, thinking he’ll get to all of us if he breaks me.”

“And he’s not gonna be able to,” Sarge crows. “You got him chasin’ his own tail. Brain-chess master.”

“Right,” Wash says, swallowing a sigh. “So let me handle it.”

“What if they separate us?” Donut asks. “What do we do then?”

“If they—“ Wash hates this. Hates that he has to prepare them for this. Hates that he has to do this. “If they separate us, if they take you off alone and torture you, if it seems like they want you to scream, do it. Let them think they’ve broken you. Let them think you break easy. You’re not any fun that way. They’ll probably leave you alone after that.”

“If you can think of one you can easily fake, give them a weakness. Something they think can get to you. Not something they can actually use. And not something ridiculous. Like, Sarge, don’t start acting like you’re afraid of your own reflection. Or the color blue. Or cheese. Or—“

“What if I’m actually lactose intolerant?” Donut asks.

“Are you?”

“…No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter, does it? No fear of cheese. Or spiders. Or—“

“Alright, alright, I get your point,” Sarge grouses. “No kryptonite ploys then.”

“You are not allergic to water.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Or air.”

“We really shouldn’t give some sort of physical weakness at all. Like how susceptible I am to tickling,” Donut says. “We should give them something that they think makes us upset, when actually it doesn’t.”

Wash sighs. Finally, back on track.

“Yes. Ideally, something that might press them to provide you with more information,” Wash says. “But don’t worry about that if you can’t think of anything. The priority is to keep yourself stable, and not give them anything they can use against you.”

“Riiiiiiight. Like what you did when you gave him your feelings for Tucker,”

“I don’t have any feelings for Tucker,” Washington insists. “That’s why I gave it to him. What did I just say?”

“You said not t’ give him something he can hurt you with,” Sarge replies. “Which obviously he can’t do because you two are too solid.”

“Oh my god.”

“Oh, I get it _now_ ,” Donut says. “Since Locus doesn’t know Tucker and you do, it’s a good thing to give him. Because he can’t lie about stuff, because you’d know!”

“Yes,” Washington says. Thinks about it. “No! Look—“

“So, I could give him my hatred for Grif!” Sarge says. “But that isn’t really a _weakness_ persay. It gives me strength. Inconceivable strength!”

“No,” Wash says. “Back up.”

“But I can’t give them my love for Doc because I already fucked that up,” Donut says, pensively. “Wow, you and Tucker must be really strong. Because I love Doc a whole buncha lot, but I don’t think I could ever do that. Wow.”

Wash has utterly no idea how his life got to this point, but he’d like it to stop.

“Look,” Wash says, “it’s not like that. Really. We’re not—we’re not dating. We’re not having sex. We’re not _boyfriends_. I don’t know where you guys are getting this stuff, I really don’t. It’s ridiculous. Tucker doesn’t even like me.”

“Aw, so you haven’t told him yet?” Donut asks.

“No. Because there’s nothing to tell. He does. Not. Like. Me.”

“I am sure he likes you back,” Donut says reassuringly. “You really need to have better self-esteem—“

“Just because you’re friends doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to bone ya,” Sarge says. “You’ve met the guy, right?”

“I’m sure if you were just honest about how you feel, he’d—“

“Jesus, Donut, it's not like that,” Wash says. “I’m not his friend. He said as much back at the shipwreck."

“Maybe he’s—“

“If you say something about pulling pigtails, I will find a way to—“

“I was going to say,” Donut interrupts, tone arch, “that maybe Tucker’s freaked out about how he feels about you too and—“

“You know what? No,” Wash interrupts. “Stop it. The guy just doesn’t like me. Maybe we were going to be friends, if we’d got off this goddamn rock, but we didn’t! He was too busy being angry about his best friend leaving— and I’m not talking about me! He got mad whenever I tried to make him do anything, he got mad if I left him alone for ten minutes, and he got mad every time I talked to him! I don’t know who told you different, but yelling at each other isn’t flirting!”

“But—“

“No,” Wash says. “He doesn’t like me. End of story. I don’t know why we’re even talking about this at all. God, this is so frustrating. We’re captured by a D-List Batman villain on a loose leash and have no idea where are friends are, or even if they made it out okay, and we’re talking about my non-existent feelings for my squadmate! What is wrong with you people? Like, on a scale of things we should be concerned about my feelings for Tucker aren’t even a blip!”

“And no—“ he says, cutting Donut off, “I know I said ‘my feelings’ but I don’t have any. For him. I don’t. So stop twisting my words to make it sound like I do. I mean—

God, he has a headache. It’s such bullshit, can’t a guy have issues with a friend— a squadmate— a fellow soldier, without everyone jumping to conclusions? Yeah, Tucker wound him up like nobody else, knew how to press his buttons to get him screaming like no one he ever met before (and Jesus when did his internal monologue start to sound like Donut) but that wasn’t anything. That was just Tucker. He made everybody crazy. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t make him feel anything but angry and so frustrated he could tear out his own hair. It didn’t mean anything.

“We aren’t—“

He remembers the way he felt on the radio tower. _All I wanna do is stand around and talk to my friend, and now all I’ve got is you_. Like a shot in the gut (he knows what that feels like). Like all the air was gone. Not good enough. Not useful. Not what he needed. How it’d felt like cracking his ribcage open, telling that story about the grappling hook. How it’d felt when it had clicked, when Tucker had let him in, when it finally seemed like they’d figured out why they were pissing each other off so bad. _Sounds like you really fucked up. Don’t be a dick_. And it’d felt like forgiveness. It had felt like finally coming back home.

“I don’t—“

But it wasn’t just the radio tower, was it? It was all those hours spent working while Tucker stood around next to you and talked, the rhythm of his words falling over you gently while he worked. It was walking into the kitchen at two in the morning because you couldn’t sleep and wordlessly being handed a beer. It was the whoop of glee from the top of the base every time you kicked the Reds back to their base with their tails between their legs in the days before Carolina showed up again, it was the way your face would split into a grin on its own accord at the sound of Tucker yelling smacktalk after them. It was having someone to turn to and roll your eyes, or gripe good naturedly at whatever Caboose had come up with his time.

It was that time Caboose made a blanket fort in the base and insisted you get in the damn thing and Tucker took his side because “he won’t shut up until you do it,” but really. It was how you felt once you actually crawled inside and you all laid around all afternoon, Caboose babbling away; you though Caboose looked happy, and Tucker looked more content than you ever saw him, and you were glad you’d made it happen. You were glad this stupid, useless couple of hours put that look of contentment on his face. It was how warm that moment made you inside, how the echo of warmth is blooming even now in your chest, thinking about how quiet and happy he was you’d agreed to join them (him), this stupid, loudmouth, asshole son-of-a-bitch and his stupid smile and his stupid eyes laughing at you and the whole world; you’d like to keep it that way because it’s better than seeing them so angry, you like it better when they’re laughing—

“Oh, _fuck_.”

That’s it. There it is. That’s all, folks.

He never did have good timing.

He doesn’t have to look up to know Donut’s giving him that sad, sympathetic stare.

“…You didn’t know, did you?” Donut asks quietly.

“…No,” Wash says. “I didn’t know.”

Agent Washington closes his eyes. It’s easier.

“Know what?” Sarge asks. “That you got some fee fees for your fellow Blue? Boy are you dumb.”

“ _Saaaaarge_ ,” Donut protests. “Really?”

“I hate you both,” Wash says, pulling himself back together and looking up. “I really, _really_ do hate you both.”

“Oh, pipe down, Agent Surprise Mancrush,” Sarge continues. “Honestly, I’m not surprised, you Blues were always weirdly incestuous.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Wash retorts. “Grif and Simmons—“

Because the universe hates him and has incredible timing, the door opens and Locus stands silhouetted against the light.

“Oh, great,” Wash snaps. “Just what I needed today. Another—“

Honestly, he’s a little surprised when Locus stalks forward and hauls him up by the throat. He would scrabble at the armored glove cutting off his airway, but his wrists are still bound to the floor, the chain taught and digging into the skin.

“Not today,” Locus growls. “Today, I do the talking. Today, is my call. And my patience is at an end.”

The pressure increases and Wash struggles to breathe. Choking gasps escape him without his permission, horrible aching sounds, a sonic form of the ache in his throat, of his lungs begging for air. He’s going to pass out. Locus won’t let him pass out. He can’t mess with a mind that isn’t present.

“Get away from him!” Donut yells. “Leave him alone!”

Locus’s turns slowly to look at him and Wash feels a trickle of fear. He tries to shake his head, but Locus’s gripping him too tight. Black spots start to dance in his vision, covering Locus’s visor, like camouflage, like the way leaves…do the thing. Sun. Light. Leaves. Ground. Gonna go dark.

“That can be arranged,” Locus says, dropping him.

The dual impact of oxygen and the ground jolt him back from the brink. He wheezes for air, dizzy, the rush of oxygen to his lung making him tongue tied and muddying his thoughts. He’s gotta, gotta stop—

“Donut—“

Locus backhands him across the face and Donut cries out. It’s cut off when Locus’ fist slams into his gut. Sarge starts to yell. Wash is yelling too, trying to get his attention off Donut, even as he knows it’s too late, Locus’s made his call, picked up on the scent of blood and gone in for the strike, there’s no changing it now, but it’s Donut under those armored fists this time and he owes the kid, Wash owes him to try.

“You sonuva bitch,” Sarge snarls. “Take me on you big fuck, I’m his commanding offi—“

Locus cracks him across the jaw, turns back to Donut. Donut screams in fear. Locus hits him again and again.

It’s the screaming that does it, this time. It’s like an echo in the back of his brain, the screaming, another man’s voice, a different voice, doubled and layered on top of each other, the memory of a memory of a scream and a scream at the same time, inside his head where he can’t block it out, no use covering his ears, and it doesn’t _stop_.

Wash blinks the echoes out of his brain. Not now, he can’t be thinking of Epsilon now, he’s got to _think_ —

Donut is whimpering, Donut is crying. He tries to bring a hand up to shield his face, but the chain won’t let him, it’s gotten wrapped around something. Locus grabs the offending hand and yanks, the chain coming up from the ground with the force of the pull and Donut—

“Noooo, no, stop, _please_ —“

_—they’re torturing us, no please not Allison, please stop please, there’s nothing left, there’s no more of me to give, I can’t I can’t do it, no, stop, you’re hurting them you’re hurting me, why are you doing this we were supposed to help people what about the war, stop, why can’t you just stop, why can’t we **stop** —_

Wash isn’t sure if he’s yelling, what he’s yelling, when he stopped yelling. It’s quiet, he must have stopped. Did he ever start? How long has it been since Locus entered the cell?

“I’m sorry,” Donut whimpers, “I’m sorry. Please.”

Locus slams him back against the wall and turns on his heel before any of them can register it’s over.

“Next time, don’t test my patience. I have very little.”

The cell door swings shut. Doesn’t slam. It falls like an ellipse on the end of their encounter, not even a proper punctuation mark to signify the end of the violence. Donut’s whimpers get quieter as Locus’s footsteps fade away.

Wash’s throat feels like a gravel road. Like he swallowed shrapnel. His head is a black hole.

Donut’s huddled against the wall, panting, his free hand covering his face.

“Donut…“ Wash starts but can’t finish. The words dry up on his tongue. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t stop it.

“Y’alright, son?” Sarge asks, concern smoothing out the normally gruff voice.

Donut doesn’t answer for a long moment. Slowly, his breath starts to even out, the panting gasps slowing to rattling little huffs. Wash can see him blinking rapidly behind his fingers, shaking his head slightly every few seconds as if to clear it. Finally, he looks up. His eyes are surprisingly clear, if a little bright and red. Bruises are already starting to emerge on his face. He opens his mouth.

“Did I do a good job, Wash?” Donut asks. His voice is still a little watery.

Wash sits, stunned. Sarge has gone stiff and still, watching the younger soldier with wide eyes.

Wash feels sick. Like the guilt and the shame and the echoes of Epsilon have solidified into a lead slug in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “You did good.”

“Oh good,” Donut says in a good try at his usual airy tone. “I was worried I overdid it.”

“Are you alright?” Wash asks. “Difficulty breathing? Your head?”

“I’m fiiine,” Donut replies. He pushes his bangs out of his face, sits up. “Really. Just gimme a minute. Stop looking at me like that.”

Wash’s not sure what his face was doing, but he’s got a decent guess. His guilt and pity aren’t things Donut needs right now. He glances at Sarge, who is pointedly not looking at either of them.

“Okay,” Donut says, sniffling a bit. But his face is calm. Accomplished. “You should let me take the next one too.”

“We’ll see,” Wash says.

“It’s a good idea,” Donut says. “And I’m fine.”

Donut moves his arm in a lazy circle, testing his new range of movement.

“He didn’t even tie me back up,” Donut says.

“We can use that later,” Wash says, taking care to keep his voice even. “You never know when we’ll need that little bit of leverage. Especially with your arm. Any thoughts, Sarge?” Wash asks.

The older man doesn’t reply.

“Sarge?” Donut asks.

“Don’t talk to me right now, son.”

Donut blinks, slowly. His hand makes an aborted movement, like he was thinking about trying to reach out and touch Sarge’s shoulder, but decided against it.

“Sarge, I’m okay,” Donut says. “I—“

“Not right now, Donut,” Sarge snaps. He tilts his head up to the ceiling, closes his eyes. “Just…not right now, son. You let me rest, you hear? I’m old. I need my rest.”

Donut turns to look at Wash. Confused. There’s questions there, and Wash isn’t sure he has all the answers, if any at all.

Wash shrugs a helpless reply.

“It’s been a long day,” Wash says. “How about we all rest a bit.”

*

By the time night rolls around, Donut’s got a horrendous shiner blooming on his face. He jokes about it in his usual way, all “my grandma always said complexion is important” and “I left my concealer for covering up bruises in my other armor.” Sarge doesn’t say much. Sarge doesn’t say anything. Neither of them are sure if he’s actually asleep or not.

It’s only after Donut has finally, blessedly fallen asleep, that he speaks.

“Wash. I need you to tell me somethin.’”

“What is it, Sarge?” Wash asks. Whatever it is, the older man must’ve been thinking about it for a while. He hasn’t moved in hours. He isn’t moving now, except for a flicker of eyelids.

“You were the last one of us conscious during that fight,” Sarge says. “Did you actually see everyone get away?”

Wash hears the question underneath.

“I—“

“Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

Wash’s jaw clicks closed. He sighs.

“I didn’t actually see them escape,” Wash says, finally. “But they weren’t in the canyon anymore. That I did see. There were dead feds and rebels everywhere, but no maroon or orange.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure,” Sarge says, voice breaking, “Cause I was kinda hopin’ there’d a been some ora—“

The weight of the joke is too heavy on an old CO’s shoulders. He doesn’t finish it.

“No,” Wash says. “Only dead feds. You have my word on that.”

Sarge nods, eyes still closed.

“You get some rest, boy,” Sarge says. “You had a long day.”

“We all did,” Wash says. It seems like weeks ago Sarge and Donut were messing with him about Tucker, since he realized— He’s got other things to be thinking about. He always did have the worst timing.

“Get some sleep, Wash,” Sarge says. “I’ll keep watch.”

There’s nothing to keep watch for. They’re stuck in a Fed prison cell. But Wash knows better than to argue with an old soldier on these kinds of things.

“Okay, Sarge,” he says. “Goodnight.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for: discussion of physical abuse and emotional and mental manipulation, references to homophobic bullying  
> CLIFFHANGER WARNING: If you are a person who does not handle cliffhangers well, you may want to choose to wait until the next chapter.

Very occasionally, the Feds actually remember to let their prisoners out to exercise. Never together, never at the same time. Just a few dozen laps around one of the central quads. It’s not regular at all, nothing Wash can plan for, random intervals that just can’t be predicted. Wash supposes they’re not that stupid after all. This time, they take Sarge first. Which leaves Donut and Wash alone in the cell.

His shiner’s faded a bit today. It looks ugly, but Donut’s reassured them both a million times that it’s not a bad as it looks. Wash’s almost decided to believe him. They’ve very carefully been talking around what happened since Locus…since it happened. At least he and Sarge have. Donut... not so much. On a scale of places he doesn’t want to be right now, alone with Donut is pretty high on the list.

So when Donut opens his mouth to speak, Wash clamps down on the urge to flinch. But whatever he was expecting Donut to say, it wasn’t this.

“You should let Locus hit me next time.”

This time Wash does flinch.

“What? No! What are you talking about?”

“You should let me take the next time Locus comes in,” Donut says. “Let me take another turn.”

Wash sighs.

“Donut—“

“Someone’s gonna get beat up,” Donut presses. “That’s how this is going, isn’t it? It should be me.”

Wash desperately wishes he could reach up and press his fingers against the bridge of his nose, where the pressure is starting to build.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says.

Because it isn’t. It’s a terrible idea. Just the thought makes him tense up with dread.

“Of course it’s a good idea,” Donut replies. “I know I’ve had some bad ones in the past— the whole jetpack thing was just silly. And the cake jumping was a little over the top. But this isn’t like that! This is serious!”

“Look, I’m not…I’m not saying it’s a bad idea,” Wash says, choosing his words carefully. “I’m just saying maybe we shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Just…because.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, mister,” Donut replies, tone getting pissier with every word. “I’m not going to sit around on my incredibly sculpted rear while we rot away in prison!”

“Donut, it’s okay. Just…let me handle this. We’re going to get out of this. I promise.”

“Why does it always have to be you that handles it?” Donut demands. “Why can’t I help?”

“Because I’m better at it,” Wash retorts.

“Better at getting hit?” Donut demands.

“I just make the most sense,” Wash tries.

“No,” Donut insists. Some distant part of Wash notices he’s taking care not to raise his voice. “I’m the one that makes the most sense. You said to give them a weakness. But _I am a weakness_.”

“Which is precisely why you need to let me handle this. I’ve done this, survived this kind of thing before. I can take it.”

“I can too!”

“Donut, look—“

“No,” Donut insists. “You’re not _listening_. I’m _fine_. I’m okay. I’m not losing it, or hysterical or whatever. I can take a punch. I joined the army, went through basic, went through the shit of the last few years just like everyone else, and I can _do_ this.”

“No, okay?” Wash says, desperation slipping into his tone against his will. “No. Just. Let me do my job. This is what I do. This is what I’m trained to handle, so just let me handle it. I’m not going to let anything happen to you guys!.”

Donut goes quiet, but his anger projects itself across the room. Wash avoids his eyes. He’s not entirely sure why, and doesn’t want to look at the reason too hard.

When Donut finally speaks, his voice is flat.

“I didn’t die.”

Wash closes his eyes. Doesn’t respond.

“Don’t even act like you are not paying attention to me, mister,” Donut huffs. “Wash. _I didn’t die_.”

Agent Washington sighs, quietly, tiredly.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“When you shot me, I didn’t die.”

It’s like time stops. The light freezes, dust motes caught in place. Everything gets cold and still. He’s stopped breathing. The number one, grade A thing they never talk about, the reason Wash treads lightly around Red base, and Donut brings it up like they’re discussing the weather.

“Wash,” Donut says. “Stop it. Breathe.”

He can’t say it was an accident. He can’t say he didn’t mean to. He can’t say he had orders. Because he did mean to. He’d committed to that shot the moment he’d left the OSC, and he didn’t regret it until much later, after the snow and the betrayal, until blue armor with yellow accents. He’s wearing the same colors now as he wore when he shot him.

“I—“

“It’s not a big deal,” Donut says. “I lived.”

“I shot you,” Wash says. The guilt is a physical thing, now, clogging his throat, making his stomach lurch. “I tried to kill you.”

“Yeah,” Donut says. “But you didn’t.”

“But I—“

“You’ve pretty much saved my life a hundred times, I think we’re square,” Donut says.

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is if I say it is!” Donuts says, pounding his free fist on the floor of their cell. “I’m the one who got shot, I get to make the rules about when I’m allowed to forgive you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense, and you know it! You just don’t like it. Well, too bad, buster, you’re forgiven. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Wash turns away. Takes a few deep breaths, until he can respond without screaming, without doing something worse.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“Too damn bad,” Donut huffs. “You’re forgiven. Okay? Four-give-inn. God, and people think _I’m_ a drama queen.”

“I’m not a drama queen!” Wash protests, not sure how they got here from a very serious discussion about that time he _shot Donut at point blank range_ to being told to get over himself for _shooting Donut at point blank range_.

“Then give me back my fucking tiara and sash, mister,” Donut snaps. “Because you’re winning the Pity Pageant right now.”

Wash stares.

“You really are all an odd group of people,” he says, finally.

Donut sniffs haughtily.

“Whatever. You’re not exactly normal yourself.”

He probably should be more insulted about that. But really, if he’s being honest with himself…

Wash considers the younger soldier from the corner of his eye.

“Why do you want to let Locus beat you up so bad?” Wash asks, finally.

Donut huffs a long breath, but doesn’t start yelling again. He seems to recognize that an offer is being made.

“I’m the youngest,” Donut says. “I’ll heal the fastest. I’m the one they’ll be expecting to break. They’ll think they can get to you guys through me.”

“But…Donut…what if they can?”

“But you guys will know it’s fake,” Donut says. “Like when you do it. Just louder.”

Agent Washington stares.

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah, it’s fake,” Donut says. “Like, I was really scared so the screaming was kinda real, but yeah. I can produce tears at will. I even got him to break the chain!”

Donut swings the broken chain around in a circle.

Agent Washington’s brain supplies him with the possibilities of weaponizing that loose bit of chain, of having one of Donut’s impressive throwing arms at their disposal. The rest of him is still processing what’s being said.

“If they think I’m broken, maybe they’ll never fix it,” Donut says. “If I play possum— _no_. If I play _roadkill_ , then maybe they’ll just leave me this way because I’m not a threat.”

“You got Locus to turn on you to get him off me,” Wash says, slowly.

“Um, yeah? Keep up, Wash,” Donut says. “I wasn’t gonna let him beat you up again, especially when you were kinda having a moment there. And I’d been thinking about it for a bit, what you said about giving them a weakness, and it seemed like the right time.”

“This is a thing I can do,” he continues. “This is my skill set. Being the pretty one, being the heart and soul of the team, being the one the others cry over and worry about when I get fucked up. Being the weak link. It’s like I told you earlier while you were being a grumpypuss. I _am_ a weakness. I can do this.”

Something about those words, said so matter-of-factly out of the normally cheerful soldier’s mouth makes Wash’s chest ache.

“You’re not weak, Donut.”

“Tell me about it,” Donut agrees. “I’m the only one who can get Grif to clean anything. Like, at all. I’m the only one who takes care of it when Simmons has a panic attack. I’m the only one who understands Lopez’s language and I’m the only one who can get away with directly disobeying Sarge when he comes up with some plan that’s going to get us killed. And I can whip out my tossing skills whenever needed. I’m _awesome_.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Yeah, you are.”

“Not to mention I keep a base that Martha Stewert would be proud of,” Donut sniffs. “She’s been to prison, she knows how hard these things can get.”

“Okay,” Wash says. “Okay. If we’re even going to think about doing this, we need to cover some things first. Where are you hurt?”

“My face got it worst,” Donut says. “And my arms. But I think I kept him pretty well away from my chest and stuff. None of my ribs feel even remotely cracked!”

“You better not be lying to me.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Donut says, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, Wash, did you really think a guy like me who grew up in farmtown Iowa didn’t learn how to take a punch? Or four?”

He hadn’t really thought about that before. There are a lot of things he hadn’t thought about about Donut before today.

“I’m…sorry,” Wash says.

“Yeah, whatever,” Donut says. “I’ve got skills. I can do this. I’m going to try and do this, whether you like it or not. But you should let me. Help me do it better. With your mind-manipulation-kung-fu stuff.”

Wash snorts, despite himself.

“I don’t even know what that is,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you totally speak Donut by now.”

This silence is companionable. Comfortable.

“You know, Wash? I can’t stop thinking about that thing you said, back when Carolina was still being a crazy lady,” Donut says.

Wash sends him a questioning raised eyebrow.

“You don’t have to take all the hits for us, Wash.” Donut says. “We’re a team.”

There are moments, Agent Washington, that turn your world on its axis. That make you realize the background radiation of what you thought was wrong, and the world in front of you looks different now. Since meeting the Reds and Blues you’ve had more than a couple of these moments, and for the most part, they’ve been good. Favorable. _Oh, c’mon, Agent Washington. I’m pretty sure we can trust you. After all we are friends._ The radio tower. _I meant every word of it_. This moment? Is one of those.

Of course, Donut just has to keep talking.

“Well, not _a_ team. Two teams. Because you’re a Blue. But you get the point.”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “I think I do.”

“We’re allllll in thiiiss together,” Donut sings, voice pitchy.

Wash frowns.

“Is that a reference I should get?” he asks.

Donut sighs.

“What rock have you been hiding under all these years, Wash?”

“I’ve been in the military.”

“Ugh, yeah. Me too. But even I got breaks for High School Musical. Sarge let me throw a premiere party and everything! Even if it was a few years late by the time I got a copy.”

The mention of Sarge sobers Wash a little.

“Talk to Sarge when they take me for my walk,” Wash says. “See what he says. He might not like it. If you can get him to agree, if, we’ll talk about it some more.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to him,” Donut says. “And he’s gonna listen this time.”

They fall quiet for a bit. Wash’s isn’t sure whether or not he’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Either way, from the way Sarge has been acting lately, the two clearly need to talk.

He can see the tactical value of letting Donut play broken doll for the Feds, for Locus. He just also worries about what it’ll cost them.

After what feels like an eternity, the door opens, and two guards lead Sarge back in. Donut flinches back from the open door, from the light, posture telegraphing fear. Wash reminds himself it’s not real. It’s not real. They chain Sarge back up, who’s grunting unhappily the whole way, but has clearly decided not to say anything. His gaze falls over the cowering Donut, and he quiets.

“Your turn, Agent Washington,” one of the guards says.

Wash turns a smile full of teeth toward them. It seems to unsettle them. Good.

“Oh, boy.”

*

There’s a routine to their walks. Even if they take him different places, at different times and intervals, there’s a routine. Wash knows the general ways out of the building by now. So when the reach the end of the hallway, he’s ready to turn left or straight.

Except they don’t head out toward a yard. They head deeper into the building. A deviation.

“Where are you taking me?” Wash demands.

The guards don’t answer. One of them is sweating. His helmet doesn’t fit right, and Wash can see the skin on the back of his neck, can read his nervousness in the way he stands.

He’s just a fucking kid. Younger than anyone from Blood Gulch. Younger than Wash thinks he ever was. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be in armor.

They keep moving further, deeper into the building. This is new. This could be bad.

Locus meets them in a corridor. His stomach drops.

“Locus,” he says, tone deliberately mild. “Don’t tell me you’re the one going to take the Freelancer out on his walk, are you?”

“You’re dismissed,” Locus says to the sweating guard. The kid. To the other he says, “Come with me.”

Locus leads Wash by the shoulder, the curve of skin, muscle and bone viced in cold armor. There’s a hand under there, Wash reminds himself. He wants you to forget that, but there is.

It’s important to remember the things people want you to forget. They’d wanted him to forget that the Meta was ever his friend, had ever fought beside him. They wanted him to remember Carolina thrown off that cliff, the threat the Meta represented now. And he did remember that. He just remembered how the Meta was made out of his friend, remembered the way Carolina was before Tex, before the leaderboard. Remembered the deeper threat they tried to cover up.

You don’t forget the things they want you to.

“I’m not getting my walk today, am I?”

“Shut up,” the guard says.

“No,” Locus says. “Let him talk.”

Wash glares at Locus, keeps himself calm, focused. This is new. This could be bad. It probably isn’t good.

“Today, Agent Washington, you can say whatever you like,” Locus says.They reach a door, and Locus opens it. “You have my word on that.”

Locus steps through the door and into the room beyond. Wash can see a chair, and an empty wall, and nothing else. This probably isn’t anything good.

Agent Washington does what he always does when he has few options, and unfavorable chances.

Steels himself, walks on. The door closes behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for blood, emotional and mental manipulation, discussion of PTSD like stuff, war

Wash’s shoved into a chair, arms dragged behind his back and bound with what feels like handcuffs. Locus stands, arms crossed, watching. Like a caged predator watching it’s still-living meal being brought in.

Suddenly he stiffens, just the barest bit. Wash focuses on his breathing.

“Leave us,” Locus orders the guards. “Ready the equipment.”

The younger guard sends Wash an uncertain, pitying look, but they leave. Wash hears the door close behind them.

“I specifically ordered you not to call me here,” Locus growls, voice lowered, and for a moment Wash thinks he’s talking to him. But when he turns his head, he can just see out of his periphery Locus standing with a hand to his helmet radio. Hand cupped like he’s trying to hold the sound in.

“I will not ‘fuck it up,’” Locus snaps, the words sounding alien in his mouth. “The chance of failure is minimal at this stage.”

Wash turns slowly back around until he’s facing forward again. In, out. In, out. Keep breathing. Don’t react.

“Shut your mouth, I will not be lectured on melodrama from—“ Locus pauses, the tinny noise of the voice on the radio speaking, quick-paced and insistent.

Wash doesn’t dare even blink. Doesn’t dare not to.

“You do your job,” Locus snarls. “I will do mine. And we will get off this god-forsaken planet. Do not contact me again.”

Locus cuts off the communication. Wash sits very still. Nothing that could possibly attract Locus’s ire, or even his attention—

Locus stalks across the room and throws the door open.

“Bring it in,” he orders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Wash closes his eyes. Breathes. He can’t focus on what he just heard right now. He’s got to focus on surviving this—

There’s the sound of wheels, a cart. The sound of footsteps, two leaving, one coming to a stop beside him. Silence.

He looks up. There’s a screen in front of him.

Tucker’s on it. So are Grif, and Caboose and Simmons, and a soldier in tan and blue armor. They’re staring back at him.

Tucker’s staring back at him.

“Is this two-way?” Wash demands. “Can they see me?”

“AGENT WASHINGTON,” Caboose yells, answering that question for him. “You’re okay!”

Wash looks at the screen. Looks at Locus. Looks at the heavy flanking the other side of his chair.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Caboose, I’m—“

His heart sinks in his chest.

“Caboose, buddy, I need you to do me a favor,” he says, his voice seeming to come from far away. “I need you to…why don’t you go check the perimeter? For bad guys?”

“Washington! Washington! Wash!” Caboose yells. “We were worried you were dead!”

“Tucker,” Wash says, glancing at the aqua soldier. He can’t seem to make his eyes stay on him. As for Tucker, he hasn’t looked away from him since Wash first looked up. “Have the Reds go with him. Please.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Grif says, getting up. He wraps his hand around Simmons’s elbow and beckons to Caboose.

“Great idea, Agent Washington,” Caboose says, pulling off a truly terrible salute. “You never know when bad guys will strike!”

“Good job, buddy,” Wash says, watching him go. “Bye.”

He really hopes Caboose will remember that, later, as he watches the Reds and Caboose file out, the door closing behind them. Wash breathes a sigh of relief. Locus nods at the heavy and Wash let’s all the muscles in his shoulders and neck go slack, braces himself. Which is good, it means he’s prepared when the punch comes.

He can hear Tucker yelling. The heavy hits him again, two quick, almost glancing jabs in the face. Designed to look much worse than they actually are. Wash lets his neck snap back with the impact, rolling his head on his shoulders, playing up the show. Ow. Because looking worse than they are doesn’t mean they don’t still fucking hurt.

“Is this how the Federal Army of Chorus treats its prisoners?” Kimball asks. “And you still think you’ve got the moral high ground here? The man clearly requires medical attention and under the Galactic Treaty on the Treatment of Prisoners—“

“Silence,” Locus snaps. “I will not debate ethics with terrorists.”

“Terrorists,” Kimball yelps, leaning forward. “You want to talk about terrorizing the populace, you—“

“Dismantling your own government,” Locus says. “Very patriotic. Not that I care. This planet is just my current paycheck.”

Wash freezes up again, just in time as the next punch hits him right in the stomach. He doubles forward, head almost touching his knees, hiding his face. Takes a minute to catch his breath, to think.

“Now,” Locus says and Wash almost bursts into hysterical giggles because he sounds like _such a Bond Villain_ , “Are you prepared to listen?”

“We’re not listening to anything you have to say, you sick fuck,” Tucker yells. “We—“

“Tucker, please,” the woman in tan and blue interrupts.

“—gonna tear him a new asshole so wide _a dinosaur could fuck it_.”

“Hit him again,” Locus snaps.

“Wait, no—“

Wash grits his teeth through the next few, hard strikes over his shoulders and the side of his ribs. Leans back up so the guy can crack him across the jaw instead. He’s not sure how much more his ribs can take.

“As you can see,” Locus says when the heavy finally stops. “Your Agent Washington is alive. For now.”

“You gonna parade Donut and Sarge in here too?” Wash asks, trying to catch his breath. “Or is this just my five minutes of fame?”

“Silence,” Locus snaps.

“Donut’s going to be sooo pissed if he gets left out,” Wash says, “He’s always wanted to be on tv. He’s been going on and on about his bucket list and Paris and how he’ll never be able to use that acceptance speech he’s got planned.”

“The pink one’s hysterics are not our concern right now,” Locus says, threateningly.

“Well, of course you don’t care, you’re not going to have to listen to him bitch for the next few days about how he was ready for his close up.”

The heavy doesn’t even have to be told to hit him this time, a hard slap, broad palm across the face. Wash shakes his head, as if to clear it, scowling at the burning spreading through the left side of his face.

“Oww, what the fuck,” Wash says. “You know, this whole thing is getting a little old. You come into the cell, growl something vaguely threatening, hit somebody and leave.”

Locus goes for him himself this time, and fuck he wasn’t planning on—

Three hard strikes, right at his ribs, at his exposed sides and Wash’s mostly praying what he just heard wasn’t a crack. Pain blisters through his sides and Wash screams raggedly. He bites it down, bites down hard on his cheek until he can taste blood. Spits it on the floor.

Locus retreats, smug satisfaction in the way he moves. Wash pants tiredly, tries to swallow down the fire still coursing through his ribs. Breath in. God, if they’re cracked—

“Do you have anything you wish to say to your man, Agent Washington?” Locus asks. “You will not be given a second chance.”

Wash bristles a bit at Locus’s wording, spits blood on the floor again. Slowly he manages to sit up, feeling out the flexibility in his ribs on his left. They might not be cracked. Might not. Fuck.

Tucker’s eyes bore into his. Wash didn’t even see him take off his helmet. Angry, livid brown eyes staring back into his. Wash takes a deep breath. He can’t get distracted now. He’s got to say something.

“Tucker…I’m probably not coming back from this,” Wash says. “I’m….sorry.”

“Dude, fucking shut up.”

Wash coughs, flecks of blood spraying out onto the floor. Tucker’s fist tightens around the edge of the table he’s sitting on, aqua armor denting the table.

“Isn’t that the way BlueTeam works?” Wash says, joking, “They show up and then leave again? You’ll just find somebody new soon enough.”

“I fucking hate you,” Tucker hisses. “You fucking prick.”

“Just pick somebody good,” Wash continues. “Just, do what Blue Team does best. It’s been a while since you picked up a stray.”

“We don’t need anybody new,” Tucker insists. “We’re getting you back, Wash.”

“Except you’re fresh out of Freelancer to choose from this time,” Wash continues doggedly.” At least capital F Freelancers.”

“….Dude,” Tucker protests. “Are you talking about Felix?”

“Sure,” Wash says, his head slumping forward, like he’s losing focus. “He works. You guys need at least one good fighter on the team so you don’t—“

“Shut the fuck up, Wash.”

“No, really, don’t—“ Wash coughs again, trying to banish the taste of blood from the back of his throat. “Don’t bring in anyone you don’t trust. Trust Felix like…like you would trust Flowers, if you could have him back. Like him.”

Tucker stares at him.

“Really?” he asks.

Wash, with difficulty, raises his head to meet Tucker’s eyes. Nods.

Tucker gives him a long look. Wash blinks, fighting the urge to look away. He’s too raw right now, too on edge and hurting and Tucker’s right there and also not. He must be telegraphing everything he’s feeling right now, and it makes him want to turn away, to hide.

But he can’t. He can’t look away. And neither can Tucker. Sharp brown eyes desperately searching his face.

He nods back.

“We’re getting you back Wash,” Tucker repeats, voice breaking. “I—“

“Enough chatter,” Locus interrupts, grabbing Wash by the hair and forcing him to break eye contact. Wash chokes on dizziness with the sudden motion, fights against his hold. “If you don’t want this to be the last conversation you hold with your Agent Washington, or any of your friends, you’ll reconsider the terms of your surrender. You have one week.”

“You son of a bitch,” Tucker snaps. “If you—“

“This conversation is over,” Locus says. “One week to decide if you want to continue in this conflict, Blue. One week.”

He reaches forward for the controls and Tucker lunges on the other side of the screen, like he can stop him.

“Wait, _wait_ , no! Wash, I—“

The screen cuts off.

Wash sighs, hangs his head. Hopes he’s done enough. Spits another mouthful of blood-slick saliva on the floor.

It’s just going to have to be enough.

*

“Fuck!” Tucker swears, punching the table. He swings to his feet and kicks the wall savagely, “Fucking hell!”

“That went both better and worse than I thought it would,” Kimball says, still seated.

“How could it have possibly have gone worse?” Tucker demands, ripping an angry hand through his dreads. “He fucking looked like shit. That stupid fuck.”

“He did look rough,” Kimball admits. “Though I never expected Locus to actually put him on screen for proof of life, even with his attempts at negotiation of late. And your friend didn’t squander the opportunity.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Tucker asks.

“Look,” Kimball says, pointing at the screen. “He only goads them when they’re in a different spot than he was hit before. He knows what’s coming— that’s why he got Caboose out of the room. And he doesn’t let them hit the same spots twice in a row. Keeps them away from his ribs from the most part. He knew what he was doing.”

“I’ll even wager he decides when it’s over. If you look here,” Kimball says, rewinding the recording, “He had plenty of opportunity to bite his cheek open. They stop once they see the blood, there must be a limit to how much they’re allowed to injure him. And if he’s good, he’ll know that by now.”

“Well, now I feel all better,” Tucker snarks.

“It’s not a complete loss,” Kimball insists. “He got us some important information.”

“Like what?” Tucker asks. “What did you get out of that? That Wash is kinda fucked in the head? We already knew that.”

“We know they’re being held together,” Kimball says, tone deliberately calm. “Your friends haven’t been separated. He even said they’re in the same cell, which will make our mission a hell of a lot easier. Also, he said Locus is in there a lot. So, if we find Locus—“

“—Then we find Wash,” Tucker finishes.

“And it’s a hell of a lot easier to find out where that hulking green mercenary has been sighted than three captives they’re deliberately been trying to hide,” Kimball says. “Your friend’s good at this. I’ll have my people check surveillance for Locus sightings since we brought you guys in—see if we can’t find any pattern to his movements.”

“Fuck yeah,” Tucker says. “And then we can shove a bomb up his—”

“And then we can make him pay for what he’s done to the New Republic,” Kimball interrupts. “And to your friends.”

Tucker nods, blows out and angry breath.

“Always gotta be a fucking hero,” he mutters. “Self-sacrificing prick.”

Kimball pretends she doesn’t hear him. She’s used to Tucker by now, to his language.

“We’ll get him back, Tucker,” she says. “We’ll need to update the others about this. And Felix.”

“Naw,” Tucker says, standing. “Don’t bother. I’m just gonna go shove my sword up into the first orifice of his that I think of.”

Kimball stares.

“Unless you wanna pick one?”

“What?!” Kimball starts. “Tucker—“

“Wash said I should trust Felix just like I’d trust Flowers,” Tucker says. “And that guy turned out to be trying to kidnap my kid and kill all my friends. Plus, Project Freelancer totally sent him to keep tabs on us and shit. Total traitor asshole. So if Felix's just like him, well….”

Tucker takes out his sword with the usual flourish.

“I’m gonna go fuck him up.”

Kimball blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Frowns. Starts to get to her feet.

“Tucker, I can’t let you—“

“—Why the hell not? Wash said—“

“On your interpretation of some cryptic words from a man who was getting the hell beaten out of him, not to mention the possibility of a concussion—“

“Wash basically told me he’s our next Freelancer,” Tucker interrupts. “And taking one of those in always ends in us aiming guns at each other, getting betrayed and getting fucked over.”

“Isn’t Washington a Freelancers too?” Kimball asks.

“Uh, yeah? And he hates himself. We been over this. Now are you gonna let me go take out your asshole traitor merc or not?”

Kimball shakes her head.

“If you’re wrong—“

“Then I’ll probably be taking out one of your best fighters, I know,” Tuckers says. “But if Wash’s right…”

Kimball sighs, closes her eyes.

*

Wash closes his eyes, thinks about the look on Tucker’s face when the screen shut off. Pretends it isn’t going to haunt him, seared into his retinas, into his mind’s eye when it gets quiet in the cell.

Locus swings away from the controls, yanks his head up by the hair, bending his neck at an unnatural angle to meet the faceplate of Locus’s helmet.

If the helmet were off, he’d be able to feel his breath on his face.

(There’s a face under there. Don’t ever forget there’s a face he’s hiding.)

“Tell me about the Freelancers, Agent Washington,” Locus demands.

Wash squints at him through the light in his eyes. His ribs are still creaking in his chest, aching with every breath.

“This again?” he asks. “I thought we’d moved on from this.”

Locus growls and slams him back down into the chair.

“I admire your will to fight, Agent Washington,” he says. “And am disappointed in your inability to accept the inevitable.”

“What inevitable?” Wash asks. “And they say _I’m_ cryptic.”

“Take him away,” Locus says.

The heavy opens the door and leaves, ushering the former two guards in.

“Why do you keep asking questions about the Freelancers?” Wash demands as he’s uncuffed, one of the guards guiding him up firmly by the elbows. “Why do they matter to you so much?”

“Let’s go,” says one of the guards. “March.”

Wash winces at the pain in his ribs as the guards recuff him to walk him back to the cell. There’s something nagging at him, something that’s been bothering at him this whole time, but before he can say anything else the two guards are closing the door behind them, Locus disappearing behind cheap plywood. His last glimpse of him is of the merc, hands clenched in frustration, helmet bowed, deep in thought.

Wash walks in a daze. The guards practically drag him down the hallway, half supporting him until he gets his feet under him, the pain in his ribs fading to a dull ache. Something’s off. Something’s been off this whole time, and now he’s starting to get the shape of it, at what Locus is so desperate to get out of him, the point of all the mind games. It’s all building to something. Something he wants out of Wash, something about the Freelancers and—

Halfway back to his cell, Wash halts, right there in the middle of the hallway.

The guard tugs at his handcuffs, shoves his shoulder.

“Move,” he orders.

“No,” Wash says.

He doesn’t have to look up to know the guards are exchanging glances. The second one shoves harder at his shoulder, but it lacks conviction.

“I said, move!”

“And I said, ‘no,’” Wash replies. “I want to talk to Locus.”

The second soldier tries to shove again, but Wash drops his weight, plants his feet. The guard is taller than him, his center of gravity working against him. The other tries to get a grip on his arm, but even with wrists cuffed and ankles chained, Wash pivots and twists out of his grip.

“I want to talk to Locus,” he repeats.

“We’ll tell him,” one of the guards, the kid, says a tad desperately. “Back in your cell.”

“I’ll wait for him here,” Wash says.

The guards eventually give up. They haven’t gotten him to budge much more than a foot.

“Do you think we can carry him?” One asks the other. Wash laughs. He doesn’t have to tell them not to try it.

The younger one, the kid, looks nervous. Good.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

“Yeah,” one of the guards replies, “We got that.”

“No, I mean, I’m going to wait right here,” Wash says. “So one of you can go tell him.”

They stare at him.

“I can’t run,” Wash says, kicking at his chained ankles. “Even if I could take one of you out while the other was gone. I’m not a flight risk. It’s not even tactically feasible that I could grab the other two and get out before the alarm sounded, I mean—“

From the look on the guards’ faces, this isn’t helping his case.

“Just, go get him, okay? I’ll wait all day if I have to, but you could make it a lot easier on all of us if you got him.”

The guards exchange a glance. The older one sighs.

“Don’t try any shit,” he threatens, jabbing a finger into Wash’s chest. Wash raises an eyebrow at him.

The guard exchanges another look with the younger one, but heads back the way he came.

And then it’s quiet.

Wash doesn’t say anything while he waits, thoughts spinning dizzily though his head like city traffic.

“He’s going to kill you,” the kid whispers to him. “If you keep this up. It’s not worth it.”

Wash doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

The sound of armored boots makes them both look up.

Locus is angry.

“Agent Washington,” Locus growls. “This is not a wise choice.”

“You want to know about the Freelancers?” Wash asks. “What do you want to know?”

Locus pauses, considers him.

“This is a change of heart, Agent Washington,” he says, carefully. “Why?”

“What do you want to know?” Wash presses. “Why does it matter to you so much?”

“Project Freelancer trained some of the best soldiers in the galaxy,” Locus recites. “It is logical to try to learn from and build on that which has been successful before. To surpass it.”

“See, that’s not it. Not entirely. Back in the canyon,” Wash presses. “After you shot me. You told me something. Remember?”

“I don’t expend energy remembering inconsequential—“

“You told me that you were a soldier.”

Locus tilts his head at Wash, a strange parody of Carolina’s predator tip.

“I am a soldier,” he says. “Like you.”

Wash, nods, almost to himself. The pieces finally starting to come together.

“Did you know I shot him?” Wash asks. “Donut. The pink one. I shot him. It was ages ago, but I did it."

“You are a soldier,” Locus says. “You were following orders.”

“No, I wasn’t following orders,” Wash says. Reconsiders. “Yes, I was. Because I was supposed to retrieve something, and do it quickly. They didn’t tell me how to do it. But I wasn’t ordered to shoot him. I didn’t have to shoot him. I did it because I thought it’d make it easier. Because I was angry. Because I thought it was my turn to hurt people and get what I wanted. Because I was being a dick.”

“This conversation is a waste of time,” says Locus. “I don’t care about your useless—“

“Do you know, I’ve killed more people than aliens?” Wash says. “I’ve been alive during the worst, most destructive, multi-galaxy conflict in human history. And I spent it killing humans. That’s fucked up, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think about what’s ‘fucked up,’” Locus says. “I do my job. I’m a soldier.”

“See, you keep saying that,” Wash says. “You’re not a soldier. You’re a monster. You’re a tool.”

“This is why the Freelancers failed,” Locus says. “Because you were too cowardly to truly accept the demands of—“

“No. The Freelancers failed because they were more interested in tearing us apart and splitting us open than what we could actually do to help,” Wash snaps. “Just like Alpha. They manipulated us, broke apart the things that made us a team and put things in our heads just to make us twitch. It wasn’t ever about winning the war. If it’d been about being soldiers, about serving, about saving humanity, things would have been different. They wouldn’t have split the Dakotas apart just to see how they fractured. They wouldn’t have given Carolina two AI just to teach her a lesson. Tex should have been beating Brutes to pieces, not sticking tomahawks in her fucking teammates.They treated us like weapons. And you throw a gun away when it’s broken.”

“They throw soldiers away when they’re done with them too,” Locus says. “I see no difference.”

Wash laughs, a sound that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Yeah, they don’t exactly bend us into plowshares, do they?”

Locus doesn’t respond.

“Is that what they did to you?”

“You have no idea what happened to me,” Locus snarls.

“No,” Wash says. “I don’t. But I do know, that if they fucked you over, if they fucked you up, if they failed you, that wasn’t your fault,” Wash says. “It wasn’t your fault. But what you did, what you do…you can’t escape that. You can’t hide from that. You have to carry it the rest of your life.”

“I am a soldier,” Locus snaps. “I did my duty—“

“Of course we’re soldiers,” Wash snarls. “But soldiers are _people_. We’re not guns, we’re not equipment, we’re not _computer programs_. They, the higher ups, they keep trying to turn us into these perfect automatons they can just throw around, but we’re not. If someone orders us to do something, we can say no. When we get a bad order, we _should_ say no. We have a _choice_.”

“You know the fucked up thing?” Wash continues. “Even after everything they did, I still can’t hate any of the fragments. They couldn’t say no. They couldn’t not be what they were. Sigma and Gamma couldn’t disobey when the Director ordered them to help tear the Alpha apart. And Sigma…maybe he was just trying to put them all back together. Maybe he was just trying to undo the damage he caused. Maybe he hated all of us, because he couldn’t say no, and we could. We could and we didn’t.

“We didn’t fail because we didn’t follow orders,” Wash says. “We failed because we _did_. Because we didn’t ask more questions. Didn’t listen to each other. Weren’t a team. Maybe if we had…maybe if we had, more of them would still be around. Maybe if we’d all just sat down and thought about what we were being asked to do, for once.”

“That’s war,” Locus snarls. “You are not paid to think. You’re paid to win.”

“No, but the thing is, if my unit was slaughtered defending Reach? If they’d gone down protecting some colony, or letting some civilians escape? If ten of us were sacrificed to save a hundred?” Wash asks. “I’d be fucked up over that, but I could accept it. I could learn to live with that. If they’d died serving. We didn’t join up so they could tear us apart, so they could treat us like lab rats.”

“You’re not a soldier. A soldier _serves_. A soldier fights for something. Right now, I don’t have orders. I’m just trying to keep a group of dumbasses alive and mostly uninjured, just trying to make up for what I’ve done,” Wash says. “What are you fighting for?”

Locus does not reply.

“ _What are you fighting for?_ ”

The hallways is silent. Wash stares into the black of Locus’s faceplate, at his own scowling face reflected back at him.

“That’s what I thought,” Wash says, backing off. “You’re not a soldier. It doesn’t matter if you get bad orders. You’re not fighting for anything. The only thing you have to judge a bad order against is your paycheck. You’re not a soldier— _you’re a mercenary._ ”

Wash doesn’t even see him move, and it wouldn’t have mattered if he did, with his ankles bound. The wall seems to slam up to meet him and he chokes on air from the impact, feet dangling and scrambling for purchase. Locus looms against him, pinning him against the wall, hands twin points of pain around his neck.

“I could kill you,” Locus snarls into his face. Wash flinches away. “I could kill you with a flick of the wrist.”

“Yeah, yeah, you could,” Wash says. “But then you wouldn’t be following orders anymore.”

Locus freezes, one great hand curled around Wash’s neck, the pressure painful around his trachea. Wash feels his lips pull back, his teeth bared in a grin in the shitty fluorescent light of the hallway.

“Choice is yours.”

The pressure increases on his neck and Wash keeps grinning, even as everything goes dark, as spots start to fill in the light around the dark of Locus’s faceplate, as the air rattles in his chest, Wash keeps grinning.

His feet hit the ground again and he stumbles, knees aching and lungs desperate, ribs solid lines of pain as his breath heaves in his chest. He staggers on his feet, back pressed to the wall for balance, bracing his knees. He can’t fall. Won’t fall. Gradually, his head clears and Wash straightens, meets Locus’s eyes. The guards behind Locus look terrified. Look ready to run.

Locus doesn’t move. Silent. Fist clenched. Helmet tilted slightly down. There’s a shocky-uncertain quality in the immovability of his spine.

Wash has seen mechs when the equipment went wrong, a disconnect between the metal exoskeleton, the programming and the human driver somewhere.

Wash stands, straight as he can.

“I’ll be going back to my cell, now,” Wash says, turning. Every instinct is screaming at him as he turns his back to Locus, as he walks away down the hallway. They watch him go.

He gets maybe twenty paces before he stops, looks over his shoulder. Locus hasn’t moved.

“Isn’t anyone going to lock me in?” he asks.

One of the guards starts, scrambles after him. Neither of them say anything as they continue to his cell.

Donut flinches, whimpering when he gets in, peers at him between his fingers. He drops the act when Wash closes the door behind him. Hears the key in the lock.

“Wash?” Sarge asks, from his corner.

“What happened?” Donut asks. “You look like—“

Wash waves him off, sits down on the floor. He needs to sit. To rest.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he says. “Just let me…”

Sarge and Donut exchange a significant glance, but don’t say anything more.

Wash breathes, in and out. The pain in his ribs is fading, is a reminder with each breath he’s still here. Still living.

There have been times in his life where he didn’t think he could keep living. Didn’t think he could possibly find a way to put one foot in front of the other. Didn’t think he deserved to.

There have been times in his life where he really thought he’d never make it back to good. Wash hasn’t made it there yet. He knows he hasn’t made it there yet.

Wash looks up at Sarge and Donut. Manages a smile, even if it’s only a thin quirk of his lips. More the start of a smile than a smile. He believes in starts. (It’s better than being like Locus. Than only believing in ends.)

“You know,” Wash says, “I really do think we might actually make it out of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end, folks! Thanks for reading!


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember how you guys wanted an epilogue.  
> Hi. Surprise?

The first time Tucker sees Washington smile, he’s got blood in his teeth. It isn’t the kind of smile he wanted to see, but it’s the kind of smile that is Wash, bitter and tired and defiant, and Tucker should have expected this.

Wash is good at being all the things Tucker didn’t want him to be.

A dork. A hardass. Not Church. Sincere. Earnest. Heroic.

The first time he sees Wash without his helmet Wash has got bruises on his face and blood in his teeth and now Tucker sees it in his dreams. It plays over and over, over a backdrop of “Looks like you really fucked up” and “Tucker! Wake up!” and “Freckles. Shake!” and “Lavernius.”

Tucker opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling of his bunk. He can’t decide if he wants the face back or not.

He can’t do anything but wait.

“Man, fuck this.” Tucker gets up, slams the door after him.

*

In the end, it isn’t The Federal Army of Chorus that busts them out. It’s Tucker gathering Caboose, Simmons, and Grif, grabbing a Warthog and peaceing out in the name of absent friends. It’s Felix going after them. It’s Carolina being forced to break her cover and appearing in the doorway of their cell, it’s her catching the chain Donut swings at her face with ferocious nonchalance and an even fiercer bad mood. It’s Epsilon saying “Come with us if you want to live, assholes.”

It’s, “If we hurry, we can probably save your friends.”

“What?” Wash sputters as Carolina hurries through getting their chains off, orders them to get the rest of their armor that she's brought with her on. “Save _them_?”

“Tucker got impatient and they’re all on their way here,” Carolina snaps. She glances out into the hallway, left and right. “Felix is hot on their trail, Locus is in the wind, and I _still_ don’t know who they’re working for!”

“Seriously, what did you say to him?” Epsilon asks. Then, “We’re good, C, I’m looping the security footage. Two minutes.”

“Move,” Carolina orders. She throws Wash a pistol and he catches it.

“C?” Wash asks. “Wait, Tucker understood my message?”

“Oy, why don’t we get weapons?” Sarge whines.

“Swing you chain,” Carolina responds, glancing at Donut and then Sarge. “Can you even use any guns besides a shotgun?”

“Minute thirty,” Epsilon chips in.

“ _Move_.”

The break out is quick, efficient, but then that’s Carolina. Wash carefully holds his tongue. At least until they get to the jeep.

“You knew where we were all this time,” Wash snaps. He can feel himself getting shrill. “And you _left us there_?”

“We all got matchin’ eye-patch bruises!” Sarge yells from the backseat. “I had to listen to Donut cry!”

“I didn’t want to,” Carolina says, her voice sincere. She takes her eyes off their twelve, turns to look Wash in the eye. “It wasn’t just your lives on the line. I think it could be a whole planet.”

“Hmph,” Sarge grunts and settles back down.

“I didn’t want to,” Carolina repeats. Wash looks away, watches the oncoming dirt disappear under the hood.

“We’re okay,” he says, answering her unspoken question. Carolina nods.

“Do you need any medical aid?” Carolina asks, voice raised to carry into the back of the jeep.

Sarge and Donut chorus their negatives. Carolina side eyes him when he says no, taking in the way he’s sitting, the tilt of his head, the stiffness in his joints.

“I’m fine,” he says. “What’d you mean ‘to save our friends?’”

“Felix went after them when they went after you. I don’t doubt Locus knows by now, too,” Carolina replies. “Wash, they’ll kill them before they let them expose what’s happening here.”

“What _is_ happening here?” Donut asks from the backseat. Carolina sighs.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Yet. But whatever it is, they need to play both sides, and that doesn’t work if those opposing sides know about it.”

“But Wash said Locus was under orders not to kill us?” Donut chirps, sticking his face between the two front seats.

“Not anymore,” Wash says, dread crawling up his insides. “We’re a liability, now.”

It’s Wash wishing they had something faster than a goddamn _jeep_.

*

It’s arriving at the battlefield when Felix has a knife in Tucker’s gut. It’s meeting Locus’s eyes over the battlefield and it’s a stupid idea because he’s probably malnourished and probably has a concussion and also probably cracked ribs but he charges in anyway, Carolina a second behind him.

(It’s Tucker opening a private radio channel to Palomo and Kimball while Felix stands over him, pushes the knife deeper, and gloats. It’s his HUD set on “record.”)

(And Palomo’s wailing in his ear, and Kimball’s saying “Hold on, Tucker, we’ve got your coordinates, I NEED A FIELD MEDIC NOW, we’re coming, we’re coming,” and he hopes to God they’re not drowning out Felix’s smarmy words. It’s catching sight of gray and yellow backlit against the horizon, seafoam at his side and thinking the cavalry really could have arrived eight minutes ago.)

(He’s alive. Wash’s still standing and alive.)

He’s still upright, Wash thinks. Tucker’s still upright, hands pressed over the wound, and he can’t afford to keep him in his periphery right now. Right now is dodging Locus, he can’t help Tucker if he’s not still alive. He spins out of the spray of fire, returning it as quickly as possible. Distance, have to keep his distance. Locus charges and Wash blocks the incoming blow with the battle rifle clamped sideways between his fists.

“Weak,” Locus growls in his face.

“ _Mercenary_ ,” Wash answers back, because he just doesn’t ever fucking learn does he? His fucking _mouth_.

And he should know better, he needs distance, he needs to _get away_ because he’s in no shape for hand-to-hand right now, gotta keep this mid-range, but Locus knows that, Locus is twisting and Wash’s joints are too sore for this. He loses hold of the battle rifle with his left hand, fingers grasping air, twists with the other wrist just enough to fuck up Locus’s trajectory and send it spiraling away. The victory is fleeting, Locus’s gripping his shoulder and Wash is too slow, not strong enough to slip out of his hold. His ribs scream, the world spinning around them as they grapple, maybe if he can just hold out long enough. Locus gets his center of gravity under him and that’s it— Wash is airborne.

Wash hits the ground, lands wrong, and bites back a scream. He’s not getting up again, not this time, his ribs and shoulders feel like broken glass under his skin. Locus straightens from the throw, satisfied with the sight of him helpless in the sand. Wash glares back at him. If he goes, the least he can do is not let Locus win. Locus keeps coming, looming over him and he can’t see Tucker from here, god, he hopes Tucker makes it through this, hopes Sarge and Donut keep their goddamn mouths shut after, hopes Caboose remembers he said goodbye, hopes Tucker isn’t watching—

“Hang on, Agent Melodrama!”

And then the end of a chain hits Locus square in the faceplate. Sending him stumbling backward, away from Wash. And oh yeah, so that’s where Donut and Sarge got to.

He can just see seafoam and orange out of the corner of his eye where Carolina’s keeping Felix busy. Tucker’s collapsed in a heap, folded in on himself. Wash shoves himself up on one elbow, determined to get to him despite the protestations of his everything. Something’s broken, something’s definitely broken and he’s not even sure what and Tucker’s not moving. Donut is flailing with the chain and mostly managing to not hit himself instead of Locus, and Sarge has got his fists up, yelling at the sky, “Shotgun! Shotgun, where the Sam Hell—”

Which is exactly the moment a Jeep flies over the ridge playing the polka.

The first thing Washington hears Simmons say in months is, “Tucker, you were just supposed to be doing recon, you fucking fuck, what the fuck!” The jeeps skids in the sand and fishtails, slamming Felix across the clearing and against the rocks. Grif screams from the front seat “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE, SUNKIST!” and then Simmons turns the turret on Locus.

This is pretty much the point where Wash gives up, and passes out.

And that’s how they get free.

*

By the time Wash gets released from the New Republic Medical it’s over a week later, the doctor may hate him more than a little bit, and he still hasn’t seen Tucker. Sarge, yes. Caboose, yes. Donut had stopped by to pat his hand and make worried noises, but Wash wasn’t fooled. “They didn’t find Doc yet, did they?” Donut just shook his head. Wash let him give him a manicure until he felt better.

That might be why he’s staring at his nails instead of listening to the doctor give him his marching orders. (Free to roam the base, assigned quarters. Free to go anywhere, see anyone.) Donut had said he wasn’t going to bother with his cuticles because it was clearly hopeless. Wash wonders which bit’s the cuticle. (He wonders why he hasn’t seen Tucker yet.) He should probably be paying attention.

“If you so much as look at your armor in the next week, I will bring you in,” the doctor is saying, waving her medical scanner at him. “Deep breaths, at least a three times a day, we don’t want pneumonia to settle in, it’s a miracle you don’t have it already with your immune system after all that.”

“I feel fine,” Wash protests.

“You have screwy benchmarks for fine, Agent Washington,” she retorts.

Wash concedes she’s probably right about that.

He’s not thrilled about the lack of armor. She’d assured him he should be safe within the interior of the New Republic camp. The Feds preferred to make the rebels come to them, and no one had any bombs to drop anymore.

He looks around. The grass is patchy, the buildings and equipment battered. But there’s an air of vitality about the place, of something with its heels dug in, something determined to grow. It’s overcast today, and he’s thankful for that (the last thing he needs is more freckles). He catches a glimpse of telling aqua, and he acts without thinking.

“Tucker!”

And of course, that’s the moment Wash realizes he’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt (he doesn’t even know where they _came from_ ) and this is a military camp, a rebel base, a _professional environment_. A dozen armored soldiers look up at him, curious, before returning what they were doing. The one in aqua stops, though. That’s what matters.

Tucker turns to look at him and Wash’s stomach does this weird flip-flopping thing. Damn it. He’s pretty sure he’d liked this whole thing better when he just had the feelings, and wasn’t aware of what they meant.

Tucker just stares at him across the grass. His helmet’s loose in his hand, no visor to dull the intensity of his stare. He doesn’t look away as he starts to make his way over to Wash. Wash frowns, looks behind him, trying to figure out exactly what he’s so intent on, except there’s nothing— Just him.

And now, as he gets closer, Wash can tell. Tucker searching his face. No, that’s insufficient. Tucker’s gaze is roving across his face, careful, like he’s trying to commit it to memory, as if he’ll be asked to catalog Wash’s freckles later. Wash can feel his ears start to flush under that kind of attention, stubbornly forces it down.

Finally, Tucker comes to a stop in front of him a careful distance away.

“You’re okay,” Wash says to break the silence.

“Yeah,” Tucker says, kicking at the ground. “You are, too.”

The corner of Wash’s mouth turns up, and he rubs sheepishly at his ribs. Tucker doesn’t say anything, just brushes some dust off his greaves.

“See you got your armor back.”

“Yeah,” Tucker huffs a laugh. “Guess stab wounds get armor back before cracked ribs. I’m still not allowed to do shit yet, though.”

The end of the sentence ends like a thud between them. Wash doesn’t know where this growing, awkward thing is coming from, isn’t sure how to break it. Wash watches Tucker’s teeth sink into his bottom lip and then realizes he’s watching. Decides looking at the sky’s a lot safer.

“I didn’t know you were blond.”

By the time he he registers the comment and looks down, Tucker looks surprised he said it too.

“What?” he asks.

Tucker huffs and crosses his arms, avoiding his eyes.

“I said, I didn’t know you were blond,” he repeats. “Until that call, I mean.”

Wash stares at him for a moment, the words taking a second to coalesce into meaning. It isn’t exactly what he was expecting to hear. And then comes the incredulity.

“Seriously?” Wash sputters.

“You never take your armor off, asshole!” Tucker snaps back. “Like never! You sleep in it, and forget naked, that’s just unnatural, dude! When do you shower? When do you shit?”

“Hey, I shower,” Wash protests. “Do not get me started on the general standards of hygiene around here. I shower.”

“Sure,” Tucker sneers. “Theoretically! But Caboose and I have literally never caught you with so much as a glove off. Of course I didn’t know you were blond! It’s your fucking fault I didn’t know!”

“My _fault_?” Wash gapes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The soft, squishy place he’s been harboring since he woke up in Medical, the thing he’s tucked down carefully between his ribs until he saw Tucker again abruptly bitters, turns sour and angry (and hurt). If there’s any way he thought this conversation would go, arguing over something so stupid, it wasn’t this. He shoves a hand through his hair and then recoils as soon as it slides through his fingers.

“Why does it matter?” he asks, bewildered.

Which is apparently the wrong thing to say because anything approaching humor falls straight out of Tucker’s spine, eyebrows slamming down over his eyes in a glare.

“You have any idea what that’s like?” Tucker demands, crowding into his space. “I didn’t know you were blond and you coulda _died_.”

The breath catches in Wash’s throat. Tucker’s eyes are livid brown, dark and sharp on him, and then just as suddenly they’re not.

“I never would have known.”

Tucker’s eyes shutter, and then he’s moving away again, half turned away and staring out across the New Republic quad. He holds himself like he’s hurting, like Felix’s knife is still in his gut.

“I didn’t know you had freckles,” Tucker continues. He straightens suddenly, trying for levity. “Seriously, dude, what’d you do? Get stuck in a—“

He fumbles for words, the joke stretching thin between them.

“Get stuck in a…” Tucker’s hands ball at his sides, clench, release. “Stuck in a….thing.”

“Tucker…” Wash’s voice is thick in his throat.

His hands reach out with consulting him, only make it waist high. Tucker is still half-turned away, avoiding his eyes. Closed off.

He lets his hands drop back to his sides.

He takes an uncertain step back, only gets halfway there, Tucker lunging. His hands fist in the collar of Wash’s shirt, pulls him in close.

“You don’t fucking know what it’s like,” Tucker hisses into the space between them. “This doesn’t happen to people like me. Wham, bam, cool, thanks man. If they stick around, maybe you, maybe you—“

He shakes his head furiously, and Wash’s brain trips over the possibilities, the potentialities on the end of that sentence. But Tucker’s not done yet, Wash isn’t done listening yet.

“You get used to people first,” Tucker continues, almost as if to himself, like he’s trying to explain it to himself. “Sex first, feelings maybe later. That’s how it goes. It doesn’t work the other way around, not for me. And then…”

His gaze slides off Wash’s face, resting somewhere around their elbows.

“I didn’t even know what you looked like,” he says. Wash can feel the strength it takes, keeping his voice steady. “I didn’t know if I— if we were going to get you back.”

His head ducks, nose nearly pointing at the ground, almost flinching away from Wash even as he holds him within reach.

“I didn’t know what was going on.”

Wash looks at Tucker, really looks at him. Feels Tucker’s hands gripping at his collar, the slight shake in his arms. The crinkles of skin around his eyes, he’s shut them so tight. The set of his jaw, clenched. Shoulders cupping inwards, tense, protective, vulnerable.

I did this, he realizes. This is because of me.

There’s a question there, in the words Tucker didn’t say. The least he can do is answer, true as he can.

Wash moves ever so slowly, leaning down to cross the space between them. He tilts Tucker’s chin up, the lightest touch (this isn’t going to work any other way) and Tucker doesn’t resist. His eyes are still closed, forehead still knotted with whatever he’s holding back. Wash moves so slow, so careful, his intent clear when he ducks his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His breath must ghost across Tucker’s cheek, his lips. Wash can feel the muscles in Tucker’s arms, his hands, tense sharply before relaxing. “I didn’t know either.”

The world slows to a molasses drag, or maybe that’s just him. Maybe his brain’s just holding on to these last seconds, nerves and neurons taking their time sending signals as he tilts his head, every fraction of a second waiting for Tucker to pull back. But Tucker doesn’t pull back, and Wash almost thinks he imagines the infinitesimal push of Tucker’s chin forward as he finally presses his lips against Tucker’s.

It isn’t a whisper of a kiss, isn’t hesitant, the touch of Wash’s mouth against Tucker’s sure and definite. It’s isn’t hard, isn’t sexual, the push of lips against lips soft, almost chaste. It isn’t done by desperation or necessity; a choice made freely. It isn’t a demand, isn’t a question, isn’t even a request. Just the honest truth.

Wash kisses Tucker with all the vulnerability and sincerity he has.

It seems to take an eternity.

When Tucker pulls back, Wash lets him go. Tucker doesn’t meet his eyes, gaze on his own hands as they slide off Wash’s collar. He undoes the clasps on his gloves, peels them off, businesslike, sharp, and lets them fall in the dirt.

Then he brings his hands up, cupping Wash’s jaw and curling into his hair, and Tucker kisses him back.

There’s Tucker’s lips and Tucker’s tongue and everything is soft. Careful. Tentative, like even now they’re not quite sure what this is. Wash reaches out to run his palms up Tucker’s sides, urging him closer. The armor bumps and prods weirdly against him, but it’s worth it with his hands on Tucker’s hips, Tucker’s palm protectively curled against the back of his neck, the thumb of his other hand sliding against his cheek. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt a touch like this, skin against skin.

“That is the lamest kiss I have ever seen,” he hears. “Lame, Tucker. Disappointing.”

“Oh, leave them alone, Grif,” Donut’s voice admonishes. “They don’t need kissing lessons from you.”

“Grif! What’d I tell you about interruptin’ the bluebirds during their courting dance!”

“Don’t you mean mating dance?”

There’s the sound a smack, and then a huff from Grif.

Wash considers flipping them all the bird, but that would mean taking his hands off Tucker, so it’s not really worth it as far as he’s concerned. Tucker starts to pull away, undoubtedly to yell something rude, but doesn’t get far.

“Don’t we have something else to do?” Wash asks, kisses down the jaw newly presented to him with Tucker’s turning to confront the Reds. Then Tucker kisses him, hard this time, edging into dirty even as Wash is laughing into the kiss.

There’s catcalls from the peanut gallery, of course, and someone’s saying something about “Now Palomo’s got two dads,” but Wash has better things to be thinking about.

I mean, they did manage to make it out after all and no one died. They’re all due a bit of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done. *flops down*

**Author's Note:**

> Queseraawesome.tumblr.com come tumblr with me, if you wanna :)


End file.
